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I swallow hard. I can see the crazy in his piercing green eyes. It’s bloodthirsty and untamed. It’s a wildness he only gets when someone fucks with his family.
I can’t let him lose it on Juliette. Not knowing the whole story. There has to be another option.
So, I don’t answer him. Instead, I ask, “Did they tell you anything new about Lochlan when you got here?”
He drops his hands and sniffs. As he begins to pace, my heart falls like a heavy, sinking weight. I have to bite my lip to keep it from trembling as I realize his unadulterated rage would be fitting if he was just told Lochlan didn’t make it. My lungs squeeze, and I clutch my chest.
“He’s still in surgery,” he says gruffly. I inhale a desperate breath and he sharply demands, “Now, where the fuck is she?”
“It’s not what you think—”
His lip curls. “Did she try to kill my brother?”
“Cash, listen—”
“Yes. Or. No,” he all but growls.
I try to take a calming breath, but I’m seething far too much for that shit to work. “Cassius Aiden Fox, if you don’t stop interrupting me, I swear to god.”
His fingers flex then tighten into fists. He brings one to his forehead like he’s praying for patience. “That is not my name.”
“I know that, but Cassius makes saying your full name much more intimidating.”
“You don’t intimidate me.” We bicker like siblings.
“Whatever.” I throw my hands in the air and point to a pair of chairs outside an empty patient room. “Sit your ass down and shut up.” He scowls, opening his mouth, but I hold out my hand. “Yes, I know, if I were anyone else, you’d shoot me for talking to you like that.”
“That’s not what I was going to say.” He rolls his eyes and grumbles as he sits down. “I was going to say if you were anyone else, I’d take your tongue for talking to me like that.”
After detailing the entire situation with Juliette and her reasons for killing Jeffery, I explain why she stabbed Lochlan. “You know how you boys are. Shoot first, ask questions second. He had her cornered, wouldn’t let her explain, and she genuinely thought he was going to kill her. All he knew is that she hurt me, framed me, or both. How would you react?” 1
“Fine.” Cash stands up, and I don’t miss the fact he’s ignoring my question. “She can breathe easy until Lochlan gets out of surgery. But if he doesn’t make it . . .” He swallows and says firmly, “There is nothing that will keep me from cutting her heart out.”
“Okay.” I’m surprised by my simple resolution. Maybe it’s because I know there’s no stopping Cash Fox if he’s truly determined, or maybe it’s because part of me knows that if Lochlan dies, I’ll probably hand him the knife.
“Miss Wright?” We both turn and my pulse quickens when I see a doctor in surgical scrubs just stepping out of a door halfway down the hallway.
I have to consciously remind myself to breathe. Cash grabs my hand and wraps it around the crook of his arm. We walk together, and I can feel Cash forcing his breathing to slow.
The doctor gives us a small, closed-lip smile. My jaw tightens, and I wonder if that means she has good news or if she’s trying to soften bad news. She clasps her hands together, and I have to lean on Cash for support.
“He did great,” she says, and I nearly double over with relief. Cash nods, stone-faced, but I see his clenched jaw relax. “Remarkably, our ex lap showed no major organs with severe trauma. There were a few minor lacerations to his liver as well as a larger perforation of the spleen. We repaired those and closed his incision site. Save any complications or infection, he should be out of here in two or three days.”
He’s going to be okay.
That’s all I need to hear. “Can we see him?”
“He’ll be out of recovery soon. I can show you to his room now.”
The room feels bleak with beige everything and those goddamn fluorescent lights again. The small TV on the wall is set to the Country Music Network, and the song playing about beer and Friday nights feels out of place.
When he is wheeled in forty minutes later, Cash and I both jump out of our chairs. He’s still pale and, despite being unconscious, looks like he hasn’t slept in days. Two IVs are dripping down to needles in his hand. He’s in a blue hospital gown and my first thought is the color would match his eyes. My throat tightens, and I ache to see those blue eyes and the light behind them shine.
As soon as the technician leaves, I drag my chair to the side of his bed and slide my hand under the bed rails. I pick his up, hold it in mine, and slowly stroke the back with my thumb. The tape holding the IVs in place is rough and scratchy when I brush over it.
I don’t know who I’m trying to comfort more, him or me.
I’ve been dozing on and off all night in an uncomfortable chair next to Lochlan’s bed. Between the lingering anesthetics from surgery and medication for pain, he hasn’t woken up. I haven’t let go of his hand either.
